272 < 34 > EPILOGUE She paced the Manhattan neighborhood, her backpack swinging, marveling at the austere buildings gleaming silver in their starkness. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. “No I’m not, John. ’ Melusine’s instant annoyance must have shown in her face. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood.
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